Chapped lips
by Lefttoconquer
Summary: You find yourself enjoying the look on his face when he catches you staring.


**Genre: Drama**

**Paring: Katniss/Peeta**

**Notes: AU-modern time/ quick drabble**

**Rating: T**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Summary: You find yourself enjoying the look on his face when he catches you staring_._**

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**Chapped lips**

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He hits you up and Bruno Mars has to catch his breath because Grenade has _nothing_ on him.

He smiles, his lips extend, and there's a tiny little dimple in the form of a pea stuck to his cheek like the ones you ate today before you decided that life's been all too cruel. His eyes glister, there's a vague thought in your mind that you have to push, push, push way down inside because you wholly think that the sun has no attribution to this. It's just how his eyes are, you realize. _They shine._

It's like stars, and you forget that your feet want to inch closer to the rail road, and heaven please, open up the doors, because you have a clear, skinned ticket in your pocket that's been long overdue.

His smile doesn't fade, his hands draw back into his pockets and his eyes fall so quickly to the pavement that you actually catch yourself wondering if you're the one that made him blush. You, you how could you make someone blush?

There's the red faint color smoothing over his cheeks, and you drop your tensed shoulders and smile back.

It's forced and ugly, you decide. You've got nothing on him, any less than Bruno does.

''I shouldn't have said that.'' He mutters, and you dwell in the ignoramus idea that your eyes are not related to your hearing. _You can't hear better with your eyes, Katniss! Don't be so silly_. It's the four pills you've taken today. Jumping off a railroad right in front of a train is going to hurt; hopefully crossing your slender fingers and dwelling on the idea that drugs might ease the pain makes it a comfortable torsional thought.

But it helps. It helped you all the way up to here. Your legs were trembling and you felt just how light you've always seemed to be. It's the lack of food, the lack of water, the lack of worries–you're so light.

Then he looked at you, in the midst of counting down the seconds before the train of three pm. arrived–a thousand and thirty two seconds left, you're almost there, almost, almost you'll breathe up until it hits you.

He gave you one look.

You felt it; you felt your skin heat up.

Stranger guy was going to witness your death – and you were okay with that.

He said; ''you're really pretty.'' And things changed, because have you ever been called pretty before?

You never had a mother to do her motherly job 'you're pretty, Katniss' – 'It's because you're my mother, you're obliged to call me pretty' – you never had your father around long enough for small talk, the occasional, 'how are you doing,' and 'how is life?' before he died – and there was no guy in the district that cared enough about you to tell you anything at all.

But you're pretty to blond guy.

You count the seconds on your fingers; you stare at your toes, moving them along the grind. How long has it been since you've seen your face in the mirror? A month, maybe five?

Blond guy is lying.

But he apologized.

''Am I freaking you out?'' He embarks. He looks constipated and _awkward_ – and it's almost a funny sight before you realize that you don't laugh anymore. ''I'm sorry–I don't know… I'm kind of … I'm strange.'' You want to say: 'that makes two of us', but your chapped lips and scarred mouth refuses to bulge.

You can already imagine saying a ton of things; the words would be your fire. Your mouth full of gasoline: you'll breathe out destruction, you think.

Stop thinking.

''I'm Peeta.'' He pulls his hands out of his pockets, and you catch the twitch of his feet that seem to want to move closer, take your hand in his and slowly move a thumb or a finger or maybe even three fingers (that would be nice. So many fingers. That would be amazing) and ask you for yours.

He's sweet, you decide, heaven must have sent you an angel.

He doesn't extend his hand.

He hums, a light tune, the tattle of two fingers snapping against each other invades your ears, nostrils, eyes – now you just seem drunk. Music does not fill you like that anymore.

''I'm heading to this stupid, cheesy art gallery.'' It's evident that he doesn't really think it's stupid or cheesy, and neither do you. ''I'm trying to get a bit inspiration for this new thing I want to draw…'' He winces, and you finally look at him, because it's clear he feels ashamed and geeky and you absolutely adore it.

You've never felt geeky. He's different, and you find yourself liking it.

''Have you ever been to an art gallery?''

You don't speak, and he seems to look even more peculiar by the minute. He seems to think he's opened up a tiny little box inside his chest, and revealed something that you've been told only makes you look like a freak.

''I'm probably freaking you out.'' He mutters, more to himself. He shakes his head, flares his hands over his pockets, and shoves them back in. Maybe even tangling his fingers into the thin fabric there, because shame needs to feel a light push, a light reality check and a light: 'this will not take the better of me'; it's soothing. You know this. You've done this.

Your feet move closer to the edge; you want to break free.

''You're not really much of a talker are you…?'' He shakes his head again, his shaggy blond hair falls into his eyes like a sunset crawling back behind its horizon.

You find yourself enjoying the look on his face when he catches you staring.

He _catches_ you staring.

How long have you been staring?

''Do you want to…'' He frowns. And you play with the idea that he sees right through you and reads your mind. You play with the idea that he's just trying to save you. You play with the idea that you could say yes, yes to whatever he implies because you need a reason. You need a reason. You _want_ a reason. ''Grab a drink?''

You play with the idea that he's dangerous, and you realize all too soon that you wouldn't mind if he was. You're not afraid of death.

Not anymore.

You play with the idea that you're looking for reasons to procrastinate, because the pills are making you woozy and tired. You're not sure how long you can feign the idea that you really don't care if your baby sister loses you.

He stares at your lips – his eyes trace the chapped lines, and the tender soft spot of pink that your lips used to be.

They're just pale now.

Then his eyes trace your lips with a deeper fascination.

''I think we should get out of here.''

This time he does extend his hand, and you don't wait a second longer before you hold on to it.

_You hold on._

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End.


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